“So responsive,” he says as he leans over and kisses the inside of my thigh. I squirm a little, and his laugh caresses my skin. “So sweet.” He moves his lips over my sex. Oh god. He trails his hand up my hip, to my breasts. My muscles contract deeply and a low groan leaves me.
He tugs my panties off and tosses them to the floor. His thumb circles my clit and passes over my wet slit, over my folds, then penetrates me. I clench my muscles, even my belly muscles. “Ohhh.”
He pulls on my breast with one hand.
He breathes in my skin and licks and laps my nipple. His warm tongue moves languidly over my skin, and my body beneath it is on fire.
He swipes his tongue over my belly and lower, to my sex again.
He’s so hungry. I’m so hungry.
I want to touch him. I reach out and run my fingers over his chest, his muscles visible in the city lights streaming through the window.
He kisses the inside of my other thigh. I squirm and thrust my hips up in a silent plea.
His tongue dips into my sex, tasting me.
I’m about to come. It feels so good. I’m so hot for him it’s not even funny.
“I can’t get over how good you taste. How gorgeous you are.”
His eyes look tender and wild as he kisses my sex for another minute, watching my reaction, and it’s an intoxicating combination.
I pull him up and kiss him. He kisses me back, tasting like me. Our tongues move, our hands searching, his exploring, mine kneading.
He grabs my hips and leans in to lick his tongue across my nipple. I gasp and thrust my chest upward, and his laugh again brushes over my skin.
“Don’t laugh at me—this is serious,” I groan.
“It’s very serious.”
He kisses my sex lips with a languorous, wet tongue. I buck, but he stills me with one hand on my hip bone. He eases his thumb over my clit and starts rubbing in circles as his tongue dips languidly inside me.
My clit is getting rolled in delicious little circles by the pad of his thumb, and I’m biting down on my lower lip to keep from moaning too loud.
My breath comes in a fast, choppy rhythm as Matt shifts back and strips his jeans with fast, powerful jerks of his hands—I see all of him, golden skin and muscles, and I salivate in silence.
He’s well delineated, athletically built and perfectly proportioned, and I want every inch of the guy. He rolls on a condom. He’s so big and thick, I lick my lips, screaming silently in anticipation.
“This is what you want, Charlotte.”
And then he pushes in.
He’s so thick and he moves fast, taking me by surprise with the delicious stretching sensation in my sex.
I go off.
“Oh god, Matt!”
My orgasm gains intensity, a curling, twisting, tightening rope, stretching from the tips of my toes to the tips of my fingers.
I groan one second, and the next, I’m experiencing the most intense, breathtaking, body-shaking, soul-shattering orgasm I’ve ever had in my life, caused by Matt’s thick cock inside me. I’m bucking beneath him, the pleasure almost agonizing, clutching onto his shoulders for dear life.
He grabs me by the hips and moves inside me, faster, deeper, and shouts as he releases.
He holds me against him as he comes, really hard, his cock jerking several times inside me, bringing me to a second orgasm.
Cursing under his breath, he continues rocking his hips as he brushes my hair back behind my face, prolonging the pleasure, gazing down at me until the convulsions in my body turn to tremors and then to lingering little shivers. Then he rolls to his back and brings me with him, brushing one stubborn wet tendril of red hair back again.
I’m panting against his neck. I’m sweaty; we both are.
I shut my eyes, not certain that just happened and not certain that I don’t desperately want it to happen again—even if it shouldn’t.
My body throbs from the way he just fucked me. My nipples feel sensitive.
I stroke my finger up his chest.
I’m curled against his side. My mouth is probably red. I love that his mouth is red from my kisses too, his hair is rumpled, and even in this state, he looks like he could take on the world.
And then I’m reminded that soon, he will.
I glance at the clock on the nightstand, wanting time to stand still. Wishing we could stay in this moment. For our lives to be different. Him just a guy. Me just a girl. The two of us just here, with no expectations from anyone but each other. No campaign. No media scrutiny. No guilt for knowing our actions affect not only us but those around us—the team. My parents. His mom . . . the country.
“Your mother isn’t thrilled that you’re running, is she?” I ask, stroking my finger up his chest as the tips of his fingers feather my back.
Matt peers into my face, looking puzzled and amused that I chose to ask him something about the campaign rather than what just happened. “How do you know?”
“She has avoided every event and isn’t speaking about it.”
He drags his hand over his face, then curls his arm behind him as he slides his hand under his pillow. “She worries.”
He tightens his other arm around me and I curl closer, craving his warmth.
Matt is staring at the ceiling, thoughtful. I know they’re close, he and his mother. And I really feel for his mother. Her husband was brutally killed. Matt is all she has; of course she’s concerned. But I can see Matt wouldn’t be a man to back down for anything. “Matt? When you told me about your biggest fear?” I pause for a moment. “Mine is to disappoint my parents. To fail to be whatever it is they wanted me to be, somebody great, responsible, respectable. Look at me now.” I groan.
He peers into my face, thoughtful. Just a bit concerned. “We’re quite a pair, aren’t we?” He runs his fingertip down my nose. “America’s playboy and America’s sweetheart.”
I grin up at him, still breathless. “They may have thought you were just a gorgeous face, but they take you seriously now.”
“I take them seriously. And I take you seriously.” He strokes his hand down my face, his gaze so very warm and endearing. “I don’t want you hurt. This shouldn’t even be happening. I shouldn’t have my hands on you.” He strokes a path down my body with those hands, the most delicious hands. Then, he ducks his head and adds, “I definitely shouldn’t do this.” He cups my sex in his hand and grazes a kiss along my cheek.
I grab his jaw and pull him to my mouth, whispering, “Yes, you should.”
He shifts above me, all stealth and muscles. “I can’t get enough of you, beautiful. I just can’t get enough.”
He’s so hard he immediately rolls on a new condom.
I wrap my arms around his shoulders as he drives slowly in, as if I’m precious. Or as if he knows I’m a little sore.
He moves inside me. I groan and relish it, clawing my nails down his back.
I move beneath him. I know that it’s crazy, dangerous, terrible for both of us. And I know that it’s also exciting, inevitable, and nothing I could even contemplate denying myself.
I cannot deny myself him. If I want to stop crushing on him, even after eleven years, he will be the only antidote.
Linking my hands behind his thick neck, I raise my head and set my lips on him. I’m hungry, moaning as Matt grabs my face to hold me still and tongues me.
23
SHIFTS
Charlotte
When I arrive at campaign headquarters early Monday morning, I’m not entirely certain if I should be feeling dread,
anxiety,
uncertainty,
fear,
arousal,
bliss,
or plain just happiness.
All I know is that I can still feel him between my legs.
Visions of Saturday flutter in my mind throughout the day and serve as beautiful, fleeting reminders of a night I will never forget.
There is a visible shift, invisible to anyone other than Matt and me
. Every time we lock gazes there’s a silent understanding that we now share something special.
Every time I hear the sound of his voice direct his staff or make campaign-related decisions, I remember it whispering dirty things in my ear, moaning my name, groaning in release. Multiple times.
Things have changed. I’ve been with him in the most intimate ways anyone can be with another, and it feels absolutely blissful. When I look at him, I get giddy and my heart starts to beat faster and faster. If anyone spoke to me at that moment, I wouldn’t hear whoever it was over the sound of my heartbeat, going crazy over this man.
There is a change in him too.
It’s as if his masculinity has been multiplied by a thousand. His smile holds more mischief. His walk is now more a confident strut, and god, his voice . . . He could be talking about state taxes and by the tone in his voice, you would think he’s describing sex positions.
The looks are killing me. Sometimes they come with a sexy, private smile. Sometimes with no smile at all, his expression almost like a thoughtful frown. Sometimes they come with a look of surprise, as if he’s surprised to catch himself staring at me.
I try not to be caught staring too, but there’s always that one second when I’m staring at his profile, and the next when he somehow feels it and turns and I quickly look away. It’s just one second, but it’s enough. It makes me try harder not to look and harder to be fully professional. Because I know, when he looks back, that he’s thinking of that night too.
That Thursday, we’re on one of the biggest college campuses in Colorado and Matt is speaking to a besotted crowd of tens of thousands. He was pretty excited about this visit.
“Our future rests in our college students and our kids. Hell, I can’t stress enough how important it is to inspire them to get actively involved, make a contribution.” He told me this during the flight, and it made me doubly determined to make sure everything went smoothly all across the board.
Even the weather seems to have been in on the plan (and the weather is almost a scheduler’s worst nightmare). The sky is clear, and the crowd is larger than we expected.
Matt’s powerful speech leaves no doubt of his ability for leadership.
As Matt stands behind the podium, there’s a voice from the crowd. “Go, Hamilton!”
Another shout from the crowd. “Where have you been, Hamilton?”
“Sorry to have kept you waiting,” he says, his lips shaping into one of his most killer grins.
My stomach shudders with excitement.
The crowd keeps interrupting, shouting, “Matt! You’re our candidate, Matt!”
Sometimes Matt laughs, or salutes them, as if they’re old friends. But when he turns sober, so do the people. His hands on the podium, he stands erect and confident as he speaks of us being the best, of how in order to be great you need to work harder than the rest.
How the same old doors won’t open to new opportunities.
How easily being at the top has tempted us to drop the ball and relax on our own glory . . . a glory that we need to light up, as a nation, together. “No one man will bring you what you seek. No one will drop your fulfilled dreams right on your doorstep. So what is it that you want? And more importantly, what are you doing to get it?”
“Hamilton, Hamilton, Hamilton!” the people shout.
A ripple of happiness runs through my body as the chorus ripples across the stands.
God! They love him, they adore and worship him, and by the way he smiles and laughs at the praises they throw his way, he adores them right back.
No other candidate in the history of the U.S. has won the presidency at this age, but the crowds are coming to see him. His wealth and name would have gained a few followers, but it’s his charisma, that earthiness, that relatability that he has that makes you feel as if he gets you, your problems, as if he knows what you need, even if you don’t.
And it’s not only that, but compared to his competitors, the Republican front-runner and the Democratic president (fossils, the both of them), he looks so young and strong, surrounded by a team with fresh, new ideas. The odds are against him, but the points are in his favor. America wants a change. America wants to grow. America wants to be young and powerful again.
“How do you think it went?” Matt asks me as we head to the hotel.
I shake my head and try to look disappointed, but when that smile of his appears, I can’t keep up the façade any longer. “Standing ovation,” I say, lifting my brows. “People connected. That was insane!”
Matt grins and stares out the car window, stroking his chin thoughtfully, his smile still there as he softly admits, “That was insane.”
I hurry to bathe and make it on time for a staff dinner. I’m heading downstairs to meet Carlisle and other members of the team at one of the hotel restaurants. When the elevator doors open, only Matt is inside.
My heart skips, and we share a smile as I step in.
He smells so good, like cologne and soap, and the warmth of his body next to mine sort of intoxicates me.
“What are you wearing under there?”
“You’ll never know,” I say, tongue in cheek.
“Hmm. More like I’ll know by midnight.” He lifts one brow, warning me, and sort of kissing my lips with his gaze.
The mere thought of being in a room alone with Matt tonight does nothing to calm my body right now.
We step off the elevator, walking side by side with a good distance between us. He pulls out my chair when we arrive at our table, but Matt is typically courteous, so fortunately nobody seems to pay extra attention to that.
Except he grazes his thumb along the back of my neck as I take my seat—it’s a subtle touch.
Completely stolen.
And it takes all my effort to keep my whole body from openly trembling in response.
We sit through dinner as the team discusses and discusses and discusses, and I can’t quite calm the buzzing inside me. He’s watching me from across the table. I watch him take a sip of his water before he slips on his glasses to read the polling numbers Hessler brought.
I’m suddenly thirsty and take a quick sip as well, trying to read the folder in front of me. When we leave and shuffle up in groups to the elevators, Matt steps into the same one I do.
He’s standing to my left the whole ride upstairs. His nearness affects me so much that I almost can’t wait to get away.
My heart is whacking madly in my chest.
My shoulder burns where it grazes his hard one. I’m aware of how tall he is next to me, at least a head taller.
I’m aware of his every breath, slower than mine.
My floor comes up, and as I step out, I turn to say goodbye to the group. I look at Matt last.
He’s gazing at me piercingly beneath slanted eyebrows, looking a little thoughtful and a lot hungry, as if we didn’t just have dinner.
I go back to my room and wait for him to text me that the coast is clear. Ten minutes later, my secure campaign phone pings.
Ten minutes more, warm hands are sliding up my skirt to reveal my underwear. Pulling it down. Revealing every single wet fold beneath.
I’m in his room, and the next thing I know, Matt’s wet tongue is in me.
24
TOWEL
Charlotte
We’re in D.C. again.
Matt finished our last tour early and he requested a new expedited schedule, which I’ve worked on the whole night.
He said he’d meet me at his suite at The Jefferson, which he used tonight when two members of his detail informed us that his home was too swarmed with paparazzi.
Late in the morning, I knock on his suite door.
I primp my hair and then chide myself.
Stop primping, Charlotte!
I expect to find Carlisle here, but when Wilson opens the door and allows me in, I find only silence.
I wander past the living room with my printout in hand.
I freeze as Matt steps into my line of v
ision, his large body appearing in the open double bedroom doors.
He’s wearing nothing but a white hotel towel draped around his hips, his skin gold and smooth.
God help me.
The towel is hanging so dangerously low I can see the V at his hips. He’s got long legs with muscled thighs and calves, hair-dusted and tan. He’s also barefoot.
His hair is wet from a shower and slicked back, revealing his strong forehead and perfect features to their best advantage. Though he looks amazing in clothes, “amazing” cannot even begin to capture the complete athletic perfection of his shape and form and muscles. Every single muscle is defined and flexed hard.
And those incredible arms . . . the bulging biceps as he lifts the small towel he has in his fist and runs it over his hair to dry it.
He tosses the towel aside and runs his fingers through his hair as he turns his attention to me. “Did you get it done already?”
Oh.
Yeah.
THAT.
“Charlotte.” Chocolaty eyes begin twinkling, and my entire body flushes as I realize he clearly notices me gaping, his hair looking haphazard and even sexier as he props those glasses on his nose and reads.
I’ve tried to shift the next engagements so that our field team has time to arrive on the bus, but I can’t help that flying always gets us in earlier—even though Matt hates wasting time waiting.
“This pushes us back a day,” he says.
He groans in displeasure, and inside me, I feel a deep, instinctive, visceral tightening of my belly muscles at the sound. Not just my belly. My sex grips too. Even my chest seems to constrict. All of that in reaction to that very male, very sexy sound.
Reminding me too much of sex. Between Matt Hamilton and me.
“I’m sorry, Matt, I’m just . . . I can’t figure out how to get the rest of the team there on time to fit in another big speaking engagement. Maybe something small—”
“Hey. It’s all right.” He slaps the folder shut and eyes me. Can he tell I hardly slept? His gaze softens. “I should take you somewhere. Treat you to breakfast and coffee.”